


Livid

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [25]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Doctor John, Homosexuality, Injured Sherlock, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9414698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: Of course, I am the idiot who followed his instructions and went to the country and ended up crouching in some gorse on a damp heath, waiting for our client to arrive.Doctor John Watson’s private writing includes amusing insights into his published stories and into his relationship with the occasionally rude detective.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I am livid. Sherlock has absolutely pushed me to my limit. I have been astounded at his behaviour these past few weeks, but today he insulted me so cruelly that I very nearly struck him.   
  
Firstly, he exaggerated the importance and timely element of the experiment that Miss V— S— interrupted. It is something he has been fidgeting with, on and off, for at least six weeks, and he has been continually interrupted. It has been a busy time as of late, but he has been working on it during the lulls, and it apparently has no true bearing on a current case, so it was excessively rude for him to act as if she was disturbing something of Great Importance.  
  
Then he had the audacity to send me to Farnham myself, claiming that his “research” could not be disrupted.  
  
Of course, I am the idiot who followed his instructions and went to the country and ended up crouching in some gorse on a damp heath, waiting for our client to arrive.  
  
I did, if I am only asserting it to myself, follow his instructions, such as they were. Yes, they were decidedly vague, and I enacted upon them to the best of my ability and the situation. He would do horribly commanding a military campaign with statements such as “you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath” and “inquire as to the occupants of the Hall.” He did, in fact, instruct me to act as my own judgement advised, and I most certainly did so.  
  
I honestly do not believe that I could have positioned myself better—there was the issue of my not being spotted, after all, which I was not—and how could he determine that my hiding-place was faulty if he has not been to the very spot to observe the actual lay of the land? Miss S’s description was accurate and useful, but she did not specify the location of every single bush and tree and stone in the road.  
  
Besides, I am the one with the campaign experience. He is not.  
  
Despite his statement to the contrary, I still believe that I did do well—and precisely as he had indicated. I did discover the name of the tenant who has taken Charlington Hall, and if he is convinced that this bad business is connected with the Hall, won’t knowing this name be useful?  
  
And the words he chose— “remarkably badly”? Really? And who is _he_ to tell me not to look so depressed? He infuriates me when he is so condescending.  
  
Needless to say, I kept to my own bed last night.  
  
A short time ago, he left for Farnham on his own to rectify my “faulty” expedition and that is perfectly fine with me. I hope he enjoys his bloody peaceful day in the country. I am quite tempted to leave him to his own devices for a week or two. The only issue which dissuades me from this plan is the note we received from Miss S. Even though she professes that her employer is being a gentleman, even in the face of her refusing his proposal, how much do we truly know about him? After all, he is the one with the odious bully of an acquaintance, Mr. Woodson, so clearly, he is at least sometimes a poor judge of character. I am anxious as to her safety.  
  
I admit that I am also somewhat apprehensive as to the safety of the young daughter in the house—there is no knowing what depths of depravity such a villain might sink to.  
  
So I will wait for Sherlock to return, and I will keep my tongue still as he describes—as he is bound to—his victorious, glorious adventure on the heath or in the pub or having a sword fight in the Hall or wherever he ends up.  
  
[There is a break in the manuscript at this point, and the doctor seems to have taken up his pen again that evening.]  
  
He is an idiot—he is an idiot for going off on his own, and for frightening me. Yes, he is in glorious high spirits, but really, I did not appreciate the manner of his return to our rooms. I have put him to bed but am too distracted to join him just yet. I will have a bit more brandy and then see if the mood strikes me.  
  
I was quite angry with him all day—but I was, I admit, equally concerned. We still knew so little about the affair—this morning, that is. I distracted myself with paying some bills and other rather dull tasks, but I admit that I also looked up the train schedule so I could possibly anticipate the time of his return.  
  
He finally arrived home a few hours ago, and what a state he was in! He had bruised knuckles, a cut lip, and a large, horrifically livid lump on his forehead. His usually immaculate attire was in disarray, his collar and shirt spoiled with blood (his lip apparently bled a great deal; it looks awful and hot now). How he was not arrested for being disorderly in public whilst on his return train ride I cannot fathom.  
  
He was also in extremely high spirits—dangerously close to a manic fit, really. He has calmed down now, at least, but whilst he was relating to me his adventures he had that glitter in his eyes that always alarms me and generally heralds days of pacing, shouting, and breaking things. I will have to observe his mood quite closely for the next several days.  
  
Yes, I will be here at home, of course. I would not think of leaving him now.  
  
And upon reflection, I also must admit that his story was quite exciting, and his description of the strong language of the man as “vigorous adjectives”—he just made me laugh at that, he is so very prim at times—and I am rather proud of him for sending the ruffian home in a cart.  
  
I also must admit that I, as I always do, felt nothing but tenderness and concern for him as I cleaned him up. Mrs. Hudson supplied some ice chips in a rag for his forehead. His hand is not so bad now that I have cleaned it—his fingers will be stiff for a day or two, of course, and I am sure that he will complain most bitterly about the inconvenience of it all.  
  
His lip will take somewhat more time to heal; it is cut not only where the villain’s hand abused it but also on the inside, where it struck a tooth. I am relieved that the tooth itself seems sound.  
  
I am most sorry that because of the wound, I could not kiss him on his lips when I tucked him into bed. He was being so very sweet by then, and turned up his lovely face to mine, and all I could do was to carefully press my own lips to his cheek.  
  
I shall finish this and my drink and creep into our bed so that I can hold him and assure myself that he is well and will not allow him to go off on his own again.  
  
[There is a note in Sherlock’s writing at the end of this: John, I am so very contrite. I have just read your rendering of this adventure of ours as it appears in The Strand and, looking back, I am rather appalled at my behaviour. I wish that I could object; could say that you exaggerated and painted me in an ill light, but you were quite precise. I was rude and cruel and so dismissive towards you that I am surprised at you deciding against abandoning me for a time; I most certainly deserved it.  
  
I am, however, forever grateful that you did not. Even when I was being so horrid, you must know that I loved you and love you still so very much.]  
  



End file.
